Blue Moon
by JayBee-Bug
Summary: A starlit stroll in a garden and some quiet conversation sometimes is more fulfilling than being the life of the party. K&S, could be interpreted as very light preslash.


**Title**: Blue Moon

**Author**: JayBee-Bug

**Rating**: G

**Summary**: A star-lit stroll in a garden and some quiet conversation sometimes is more fulfilling than being the life of the party. (K&S, could be interpreted as pre-K/S)

**Disclaimer**: (Insert witty disclaimer here)

**Distribution Statement**: Yes, if you'd like, but please inform me if you do.

**A/N**: Wrote this before I even saw "Who Mourns for Adonais?" Any vague parallels they might have are unrelated.

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The pungent evening air spoke of exotic flavors on the breeze. The outdoor party hummed and buzzed with a sort of visceral excitement that was impossible to ignore. It was exactly the kind of energy that attracted Kirk, drawing him in like a moth to flame. He thrived in this atmosphere, an animal set loose in its own element. There was something different about tonight, though, for some reason. After a few hours, he had settled down into a chair on the outskirts of the group, which was highly unusual behavior, coming from him. He had this perverse and incomprehensible desire to simply be the observer for once, rather than the partaker. Look upon things with fresh eyes. Perhaps he was just feeling especially nostalgic or something. He pondered many similar experiences as he watched, dozens of social affairs he'd been to, people he'd engaged, across all cultural and species barriers. And while they were all diverse and unique in their own ways, he could see a common thread running through most of them, perhaps all of them.

That commonality was . . . it was a strange feeling that he never really got the chance to break the surface. With cultures in general, but also with all the people he met and interacted with. They danced on the surface like the boisterous and spectacular displays of frolicking dolphins, sometimes with dicey conflict, sometimes with joyful abandon, always with much energy and flair. The rush, the thrill, of first contact-- there were no words to even describe it. The challenge was constant, and every world was a bold new flavor. He wouldn't trade anything for this job, this life. Yet, always on the surface-- that could be frustrating at times. He was always in a hurry, in such a rush. Off to the next world, the next mission. He was a busy captain, he had places to be, things to do. This busyness did keep things exciting and interesting and novel. It also lost something in the rush, though. Something that Kirk often did not stop to even notice.

Every blue moon, the man craved to dive beneath the surface. Every once in a great while, a particular world, a particular mission, a particular person . . . would make him stop and ponder longer than he usually did. Deeper and more seriously than usual. And it made him do something odd-- it made him yearn. Not the usual wanderlust and thirst for adventure; his life onboard the _Enterprise _was more than enough to satisfy that hunger. This was a yearning of a very different sort entirely. It was much more difficult to define, as he was unfamiliar with its touch. All of Kirk's contacts with the world around him were vibrant but fleeting. In a way it often was like an addiction to him, though one he considered to be very healthy. Nevertheless, when that rare moment came up that made him pause, hesitate, and ponder . . . sulk, obsess, even . . . he could become deeply absorbed in the notion that it wasn't enough. It just wasn't always enough. It felt . . . like sometimes he was missing opportunities. In his haste to do as much as he could do, he sometimes wondered if he was missing something important along the way. This deeply troubled him when it occurred to him, because James Kirk hated the idea of missed opportunity.

Oh, he had enjoyed himself tonight, at this party. The people here were fascinating, to borrow a favorite term from his first officer. The food was delicious, the music was beautiful, the entertainment had everyone tickled pink. (Well, almost everyone.) The leaders had a delightful sense of humor and gusto that Kirk deeply appreciated. It was just that as the evening wore on, he found himself being drawn into a more and more introspective state of mind. The party was indeed wonderful-- in fact, a little too wonderful, a little too . . . familiar. That sense of dé já vu is what brought him here, sitting alone now on the cushioned chair, the sounds of the party an exciting background noise to his ears, like the droning of an industrious beehive. Sitting here, he felt this strong sense of perspective. It was even easier to see the common thread from this distance. Not too close to the party, but not too far, either; close enough that he could hear voices, but he couldn't quite make out what they said. He could see people interact, but not distinguish all of the faces. He could take in the theme without all the distracting details. And what he saw and heard and felt, was . . . this frustrating sense of it all just being so _surface. _So . . . superficial.

He didn't quite understand it. Draining his glass of alien ale, he continued to puzzle and prod this mysterious feeling. Because of how absorbed he was in his own thoughts, he did not notice nor even expect the approach of another fellow party-goer. In retrospect, he should have known that it was not a question of if, but when, this man would materialize from the darkness, and discover Kirk in his relative isolation. As it was, though, Kirk was startled when he detected a presence right beside him, and gave a little start, nearly spilling the rest of his drink in the process. The other man responded intuitively, partially to try and catch the tipping glass, partially to hold out hands in supplication for the surprised human.

"I did not mean to startle you, captain," the vulcan said apologetically, hands slowly sinking as he saw the captain had the wild ale under control now.

Knowing now who the sudden intruder was, Kirk's demeanor changed immediately, sinking back into a relaxed posture.

"It's all right, Spock. I was letting my mind wander." The man smirked, tossed back the last little bit of the drink, and set it on the round table beside his chair.

"It seems I'm losing my touch. I was so distracted I imagine an entire herd of Tarzarian razorbacks probably could have tramped over me without my notice."

"If it is any consolation, vulcans _are _noted for their innate stealth," Spock offered. Kirk smiled easily at that.

"Your concern for my pride is touching, Mr. Spock."

"Merely pointing out the facts, sir."

"Of course."

They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, Spock standing there, hands tucked neatly behind his back.

"So. I gather you're out here avoiding the crowds."

Spock raised one elegant brow.

"As you appear to be doing the same, captain."

Kirk nodded. "Point taken. I was . . . in the mood for some quiet time."

The vulcan gave a glance to the foliage surrounding them and said,

"This planet does offer much in the way of 'quieter' ventures. I have been analyzing the intriguing specimens here. Quite an array, representative of a highly diverse ecosystem."

They were in the middle of a garden, of course. They stood along the path that eventually led to a courtyard where public gatherings took place, such as the one that night. Spock's comment on the garden seemed quite accurate; Kirk had all ready noted how much variety there was in the no-doubt meticulously planned garden.

"I'm glad you haven't been totally bored this evening. I know how these types of social events . . . aren't your favorite activities," Kirk said, smiling. Spock was always such a trooper about obligatory gatherings in the name of diplomacy.

"There is no need for concern, sir. I have endured far more abrasive trials. It is an integral part of my duties."

"Mm," the captain said, struck with the irony. Something he counted as one of the highest perks of his job was considered by another to be the price he was willing to pay in order to enjoy his own line of work.

"Would you care to join me on a walk?"

Kirk glanced up, not having expected such an invitation from his first officer. But the man had requested it in that same calm manner as he did all things, upfront and direct as always.

"Actually, I think I'd really enjoy that," he answered, realizing what an appealing suggestion it was as he spoke.

"I can point out several particularly interesting specimens along the way," the vulcan said mildly, starting out on the trail (in the oppose direction from the party) as if he did this sort of thing every day. James Kirk left his chair behind, and the steady murmur of the party along with it, to walk beside Spock among the alien garden.

The exotic flavors on the breeze did not vanish as the two of them walked down the quiet pathway. In fact, those smells increased, as they worked their way deeper into the heart of the cultivated landscape. The planet was semitropical, hot during the day, cold during the night, with a humidity that Kirk was better adjusted to when compared to other planets they'd recently visited. He savored the slightly damp air, enjoyed the light cool breeze that ruffled through the trees. All around the garden, squat, bulbous structures seemed to spring from the soil, which were oddly-shaped lanterns. They almost appeared like bioluminescent mushrooms, even though they were undoubtedly "manmade." They glowed a soft blue light, partially illuminating different areas of the evening garden.

"Do you notice the texture on the exterior of these trees, captain?"

Kirk touched the thick carpet of moss on the tree bark. It was surprisingly soft to the touch, silky and smooth, like expensive animal fur.

"There are fourteen distinct species of mosses here, each depending on the species of tree and the location of the branches. They exist in a completely symbiotic relationship with their host tree; codependents."

"Really?" Kirk murmured, peering up into the canopy of trees above them. The trees occurred sporadically in the garden, a patch here and there, nearly dense enough to give the sense of a thin forest.

"Indeed. The moss is the sole center of photosynthesis for the trees. And the moss cannot grow anywhere else but in the tree bark."

"Fluffy trees," Kirk mused out loud. Their semi-thin branches twisted and crawled in multiple directions, somewhat akin to a gnarled oak tree, if one could envision one without any leaves and completely covered in thick green fur. Spock did not know what to make of Kirk's comment and instead moved on in silence, after an obligatory curious glance. Jim chuckled to himself.

"The species over there is called falkro grass. Every blade is tipped with a cup-like shape, if you examine it closely. . ."

Kirk leaned down and picked a few blades of the grass, and scrutinized them. Little teacup caps were a delicate butter-yellow, which bobbed and nodded at the slightest bit of movement Kirk made.

"The cups are designed to capture a specific mineral from this planet's atmosphere that forms during the night in dewdrops," the vulcan murmured.

They carried on, past a few more noteworthy specimens. Kirk thought the triangular mushrooms were cool. Spock showed special interest in the vine-like creature that was actually a pseudo plant, an animal that had evolved toward the plant lifestyle. Eventually they passed most of the interesting things, and Kirk noticed the density of the garden seemed to be thinning out a little. Along with it, there was an increase in the pale blue light. He thought at first it was just from the lanterns along the pathway, until the two of them came around a bend in the trail. Then Kirk saw a small satellite had just risen on the horizon of the planet, and was glowing that same faint blue color.

"A moon?" Kirk wondered. He hadn't noticed any when they first came ashore. Strange, he was usually so thorough when it came to knowing these details.

"They call it Yupik. Their only satellite, on an especially elliptical orbit."

"Ah."

From their perspective on the planet, the moon seemed about quarter-sized, as opposed to the more dime-size of Earth's moon.

"I like it," Kirk decided. They came upon what was clearly a bench-- comfortably padded in plush-- along the pathway and by unspoken choice both took a seat there. Spock spoke in his usual even tone,

"I have never understood the human fascination with planetary satellites. By and large, they are lifeless rocks of interstellar debris merely captured in orbit."

Impulsively, Kirk answered,

"It _speaks_ to you, Spock. Can't you hear it?"

Spock gave his captain a surprised and puzzled look.

"What I mean is . . . it _stirs_ something. Inside. When we look at a moon, it's not just some lifeless orbiting debris. It . . . reflects certain feelings back at us."

Clearly, Spock could not understand how such "space junk" was capable of reflecting emotions. Kirk shrugged.

"Maybe it's just something you had to have grown up with to appreciate."

The vulcan settled down in his seat, humming,

"Most likely that is the case."

Jim smiled faintly and the two of them slipped into companionable silence. It was one of the (many) things Kirk valued about his friendship with Spock. It didn't need many words. While Kirk usually felt the need to fill silences, and was naturally a fairly talkative person, he could be quiet around Spock and be comfortable. Probably because the vulcan did the same.

So he watched the moon and pondered the ironic fact that it was a blue moon, which of course meant nothing special to the natives here, but was significant to an Earth man, and when he was done with that, he tried to see if he could recognize any constellations in the alien sky. He was able to pick out several, but was confused when he couldn't find one of his regulars.

Spock must have noticed his wrinkled brow, his expression of mild confusion, because he broke the silence to inquire softly,

"Something the matter?"

Kirk responded distractedly,

"I can't . . . find the Wild Targ. It's strange; there's Kayson, the Hunter, and he's supposed to be pursuing the Targ . . . usually I just follow his spear right to it."

The science officer made a cursory scan of the sky and found precisely what he expected.

"That is because their orientation has flipped. The Targ is now pursuing Kayson."

Kirk looked to where Spock indicated in surprise.

"You're right! . . . I've never seen that before."

"I believe our location coincides with the autumnal sky on Qo'noS's northern hemisphere. It is said when the season turned cold, the hunter became the hunted."

The captain straightened in his seat, staring levelly at the man next to him.

"Spock. I'm surprised you show an interest in Klingon mythology."

The first officer looked to him and returned,

"I am interested in all faucets of other cultures. Practically all that is known of the Klingons themselves are the ancient mythologies that have slipped through, crossing all cultural and spacial boundaries."

"That's true," Kirk agreed, pondering over the mysterious race that authored the intriguing stories he had read about since he was young.

"A culture's mythology can speak a great deal about its people," Spock continued.

"Yes, I . . . can imagine so."

He paused to admire the role-reversal of the still-drama played out in the sky above them; the compact, spiny-looking little constellation that was supposed to be a boar Targ, though Kirk could only try and imagine exactly what a Targ looked like, now hot on the heels of its humanoid pursuer.

"It admittedly takes a certain amount of imagination to visualize, doesn't it?"

The vulcan nodded somberly.

"Indeed. These stars were looked upon through a very different set of eyes. One can only hope to reach a partial and imperfect understanding of another's mindset, at best, in this manner."

Kirk glanced back up and smiled when he was suddenly struck with a notion.

"I think I understand. At least partially. I'm reminded of my own Terran constellations. There are a lot of similarities in the stories . . ."

"Orion's pursuit of Taurus the bull."

"Yes! And being chased by Scorpius."

The vulcan mmm'd to agree.

"I take it you've studied Terran mythology as well, then."

"With particular interest," Spock noted.

"Oh? Why's that?"

Spock selected his words meticulously, as usual, and then answered,

"There appears to be an enduring sense of inspiration in the human imagination for such stories, even after all of the millennia that have passed. The culture that had originally depicted those stories has been extinct for untold generations. Yet even now the stories live on. Something so enduring must, logically, rest very close to the human spirit."

Jim let himself slouch comfortably in the seat, tilting his head back on the chair to gaze at the sky.

"Well, I won't argue with you there."

The night was very quiet, lacking the usual nocturnal insects that Kirk was used to hearing on various worlds. The only sound was the light breeze rustling through the garden, dancing across like the planet's breath.

"Tell me your favorite story, Spock," the man said casually, still gazing at the sky. Thus he missed seeing the raised brow, but had no doubts that it was there, all the same.

"My favorite, captain?"

The aforementioned captain could not resist casting a brief sideways glance at the inquiring vulcan. He was the picture of eloquent curiosity, especially in the pale blue moonlight.

"Yes. You know . . . the one you like best."

Briefly, Spock pondered the request.

"Among the stories of Terran constellations, I suppose I find the ancient hero character Hercules to be one of the most compelling."

Kirk's eyes lit up in recognition.

"The great Greek warrior, son of Jupiter?"

Spock nodded.

"There are many detailed accounts of his conquests. He was highly regarded as an honorable champion among humans, nearly equal in strength to the gods."

"Yes, he was a . . . destroyer of monsters. He killed many great beasts that threatened people." Kirk recalled out loud. He glanced to Spock.

"That's your favorite hero?"

"Indeed. It was well established that the man relied first and foremost on his physical strength and his aggression to defeat all enemies and obstacles in his path, and that he was not particularly adept at strategy. He was impulsive and quick to act. Such a nature in fact led to several mistakes he later regretted. Yet he was still hailed as a hero among heroes."

Kirk smiled slowly at this.

"Seems a bit illogical, doesn't it?"

Spock carried on,

"It is a very different view of aggressive, impulsive behavior. The stories seem to glorify it."

"I suppose you see it as a perfect example of romanticizing barbarianism," Kirk said wryly.

"Actually, sir, I do not."

The captain looked at him a moment and urged,

"Well, go on then."

The vulcan measured his words-- it was something Kirk could always see him doing as he watched the man's face-- and then said,

"While my own culture would regard such behavior as needlessly excessive and dangerously violent, I do not believe that was the primary focus of the mythology. The Hercules character is best known for twelve labors he must perform."

"The twelve labors of Hercules, yes. It was after he killed his wife and children in a fit of madness."

"Yes. The tasks were meant to purify him of his blood sin. Nearly all required him to slay some demon or complete some task that would benefit other people."

"True."

"Even after he completed his tasks he was never fully satisfied. He continued to be haunted by his mistakes, real or perceived, for the rest of his life and enduring some of the most painstaking trials for the sake of helping others."

Kirk nodded as he listened.

"The 'message' of the stories seems to recognize not only an inherent responsibility to use great strength for altruistic purposes, but also the need to taper intense emotion when it becomes self-defeating. It is a surprisingly civilized notion for such an early period of your history."

Jim smirked and replied somewhat sarcastically, somewhat seriously,

"On behalf of my fellow Earth men, I thank you."

The vulcan seemed to thrive on this sort of sarcastic attention whenever Kirk gave it to him. Spock pushed on, and went a little further, saying,

"The human notion that emotion can be a source of strength is an interesting and persistent one. I must admit I have mentally drawn parallels between you and this Hercules character."

It was Kirk's turn to stare in surprise.

"Me? Me and Hercules?" he repeated, uncertain whether to be delighted, concerned, or both.

"In your case, though, sir, I would acquiesce that you possess a great deal more foresight than Hercules. You are far more capable of avoiding the sort of impulsive mistakes that he constantly made."

Kirk blinked, taking this in. He tried to tease out the meaning behind it. Almost half-jokingly, he asked,

"So are you saying that . . . I'm as tough as Hercules plus without his dimwittedness?"

"That would be an adequate approximation of my meaning, yes," Spock returned, the ghost of a smile on his features.

The captain was literally at a loss for words at the moment. It was all he could do to gaze at his friend with a mixture of wonder and enchantment. Finally he battled to articulate himself, but even still, it was an effort.

"Spock, I think that . . . that is perhaps the most . . . fantastic compliment I've ever received."

The vulcan dropped his eyes, traces of that small private smile, the one only meant for Kirk, still evident.

"There is no need to get emotional, Jim. I was merely expressing my honest opinion."

Slowly the dark brown eyes came back up to meet Kirk's gaze, almost coyly. But Jim Kirk knew better than to interpret Spock as coy.

Vulcans are not coy.

Suddenly, Kirk found the right words. He seized on them like treasure.

"You know, there was another hero of Greek mythology that I read about. He was one of Hercules' closest friends, in fact."

"Oh?" Spock queried, somehow making the single syllable rise with such grace, like a bow being drawn across a violin cord.

"Theseus. Son of a great Athenian king." He paused, waiting to see how much Spock knew. The first officer seemed reluctant to divulge. So Kirk prodded,

"He went on quite a few adventures, just like Hercules, but he was widely regarded by all to be very wise. Theseus the Wise. More often than not he was thinking his way out of a problem. He even solved the mystery of the labyrinth, which nobody else had escaped alive from."

Spock settled back in his seat, knowing look in his eyes. Oh, he definitely knew all this already. His silence bided Kirk to continue anyway. With a small, mischievous smile, he carried on,

"He was also very compassionate, a humanitarian, you might say. He stepped in as a skilled diplomat between two warring city-states in one story-- I get the impression you're probably familiar with it all ready?"

The vulcan replied smoothly,

"The tale does 'ring a bell,' as you prefer phrasing it."

Kirk gave a nod of satisfaction. Then he drove it home, leaning in just slightly and speaking a little more gently, murmuring,

"And when nobody else was there for him, Theseus was there for Hercules. He alone beat back the demons of Hercules' mind, took him by the hand and led him out of his overwhelming emotional turmoil. Back up to daylight and to clarity. A very loyal and clear-thinking friend."

The vulcan didn't say anything, though he looked on the verge of it. He had that expression like there were words caught in his throat, ones he wouldn't quite allow to be spoken. Jim decided to nudge him along, treating him to one of his winning boyish grins, practically sing-songing,

"Just reminds me a little of somebody I know."

The vulcan swallowed whatever words had been there, recomposed his expression, and said,

"Indeed. It does sound like he was a most respectable character."

"Oh, he most definitely is," Kirk replied with easy certainty, never breaking eye contact with Spock. Then he added in an inspired rush,

"In _fact_. . . I would have to say that, among the Greek heroes, Theseus is _my_ favorite."

Spock froze a moment, as if caught in the blinding headlights of such shameless praise. Yet he couldn't humbly reject nor openly accept something delivered so neatly couched in metaphor.

Breaking his eyes from Kirk's intense gaze, he ducked his head slightly, admitting,

"That is a pleasing thing to know."

As lovely as it was to hear that velvet-soft comment fall from the vulcan, Kirk felt immediately guilty for having succeeded in obtaining this admission. His eyes danced around the garden a bit and landed upon the blue moon.

"Spock. I think I can make out some geological features on Yupik's surface by now."

The vulcan glanced up, intrigue in his eyes, and looked to the moon.

"Quite correct, captain. I did not expect such features to be visible with the naked eye."

His voice sounded warm, almost cheerful.

It made Kirk smile, whenever he heard that warmth in Spock's tone, almost as if it directly heated his own heart.

"The detail is very fine. Almost like ripples from an ocean wave," Kirk marveled, tracing the lines of light and shadow along the blue satellite with his gaze.

"Or the patterns left by wind on sand dunes," Spock observed quietly.

Jim reclined back once more on the bench, and sighed peacefully. Together they gazed towards the heavens and meditated upon the planet's moon. There were no more words for quite some time afterwards.

And that was perfectly suited for the both of them.

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